h the glory has not departed and
whose motto is not _Ichabod_."

"Unfortunately, I can't do that," the younger woman answered. "I've
explained why already. Where my heart is, there, you see, my kingdom is
also."

"Ah! my dear, my dear," Katherine said, touched, yet somewhat weary.

"And after all it is not wholly for our own sakes we make this fight to
keep you."--Miss St. Quentin's voice sank. She spoke slowly and as
though with reluctance. "We do it for the sake of the person you love
best in the world. I don't say we love him very much, but that is
beside the mark. We owe him a certain duty--I, because I am living in
his house, the others because they are his friends. When he comes
home--as come he surely will--they all say that, even while they blame
him--would it not be an almost too cruel punishment if he found
Brockhurst empty of your presence? You would not wish that. It's not a
question of me, of course. I don't count. But you gone, no one--not
even the old servants, I believe--would stay. Blame would be turned
into something awkwardly near to hatred."

Lady Calmady's serenity did not desert her, but a touch of her old
loftiness of manner was apparent. And Miss St. Quentin was very glad.
Anything, even anger, would be welcome if it dissipated that unnatural,
paralysing calm.

"You forget Julius, I think," she said. "He will be faithful to the
very end, faithful unto death. And so will another friend of happier
days, poor, blind, old Camp."

A sudden inspiration came to Honoria St. Quentin.

"You must only count on Julius, I am afraid, Cousin Katherine--not on
Camp."

And to her immense relief she perceived Lady Calmady's serenity give a
little. It was as though she came nearer. Her sweet face was troubled,
her eyes full of questioning.

"Camp grew a little too tired of waiting about three weeks ago. You did
not ask for him----"

"Didn't I?" Katherine said, smitten by self-reproach.

"Never once--and so we did not tell you, fearing to distress you."

Miss St. Quentin came over and sat down on the end of the sofa again.
She rested her hands on her knees. Her feet were rather far apart. She
fixed her eyes upon the small prophets and patriarchs anticking upon
the hearth.

"But it wasn't really so very bad," she said reflectively. "And we did
all we could to smooth his passage, poor, dear beast, to the place
where all good dogs go. We had the vet out from Westchurch two or three
times, but there wa